


Rex quondam rexque futurus

by MiraHerondale



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Already Married, Crack, Excalibur, Im destroying the original canon of King Arthur, John has a destiny, Johnlock - Freeform, King Arthur imaginary, M/M, Mage Sherlock, Magic, Magic Realism, Naughty and unsafe use of swords, Stablished Relationship, Sword Fighting, Urban Fantasy, i dont mind, lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraHerondale/pseuds/MiraHerondale
Summary: In which Sherlock is Merlin, Mycroft tells prophetic riddles, John has a Destiny, and Mrs. Hudson is not their housekeeper.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 14





	1. In which Sherlock is not worried. At all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the Johnlock Promts in my long list of To Do fics. I keep throwing prompts at the Beabs chat, and then I don’t write them because deep down Im a bad person :(
> 
> Many thanks to @eragon19 for being my partner in crime and Beta for this story. 
> 
> (I promise I will keep updating the rest of the fics, I swear it)

It began with a bang.

The double doors of the mansion slammed hard against Sherlock’s back, taking the breath out of him for a second. Lord Mortimer had punched him in the chest. He had tried to push him away as he ran down the hallways, with such bad luck, Sherlock had stumbled against one of the statues and fallen backwards. The detective had gasped for air, trying to get back on his feet, as he saw John jumping over the baranda of the last set of stairs, eyes fixed on Lord Mortimer’s shadowy figure, already close to the main entrance.

Sherlock muttered a curse, feeling a jolt of energy, much like electricity running across his body, and he breathed in. He moved quickly and got to his feet, promptly following their suspect.

The doctor was already blocking Lord Mortimer’s escape, his body between the old man and the door, when Sherlock got to the old man. John was breathing fast, sweat dripping down his forehead. He had taken off his sweater at some point, and the t-shirt was clinging to his body, drenched in both sweat and rain. His arms were open, body slightly forwards, legs spread and feet firm on the ground. Sherlock, at the other end of the hallway, was ready to take Lord Mortimer down if he came too close again. The old man had taken him by surprise once, and he wouldn’t do it again.

“It’s over, Arteus. Scotland Yard is already sending men here”, John said. He looked like a rugby tackler, waiting to jump over the suspect and secure him on the ground until Lestrade arrived. It would not be the first time he had done such a thing. Sherlock had seen John put on their knees men way taller and bigger than him, sobbing like kids. It was always a sight to see.

Desperate, Lord Mortimer looked around, to the knight armours decorating the walls, and grabbed one of the swords, charging against John.

Sherlock shouted and was almost ready to stop this nonsense, when John did… a very John thing to do, honestly. It took him absolutely by surprise because what he wasn’t expecting, at all, was to see John rushing to take one of the swords himself. With a surprising ease, taking into account John had _never_ _once in his life_ used a sword. Sherlock felt a jolt of something, like static in the air, the hair on his body rising. 

John moved towards Lord Mortimer to counterattack, effectively blocking the surprisingly hard blow and already preparing to block the next one. The clash of metal against metal, and the look of John’s eyes, made Sherlock twitch. Old memories surfaced, and he found himself frozen in place as John managed to hit and disarm Arteus, and secured him to the ground, just as Lestrade entered the room with his men. The police walked around him much like a river flows around a rock, as he could not tear his eyes apart from John. 

He was sweating, his still long hair messy, fringe falling over his eyes, beard shining like gold at the bright light of the mansion’s entrance. Gasping by the effort of the long chase, the fight, and most likely the strength needed to effectively block and disarm Lord Arteus Mortimer. He saw the doctor wincing in pain, moving his bad shoulder slowly in circular rotations. 

As Donovan pushed him aside to cuff the suspect, John moved out of her way and lifted his eyes to look at Sherlock, at the other end of the room, still unmoved. 

Something made his skull tickle when their eyes met, goosebumps running across his arms. 

It felt like time had slowed down, as he saw John turn to check for the last time that Lord Mortimer was secured and wouldn’t run away. As if, for a moment, John belonged to another place and time. One Sherlock knew he did not belong. 

Didn’t he? 

John patted Lestrade’s shoulder when he walked next to him, right to where Sherlock was standing. 

Sherlock blinked, desperately running options inside his mind palace at light speed pace. He had to go see him. He had to. This needed a check. As much as he despised it, the situation might have changed. 

How had it changed? Why now? Why… right at this insignificant moment, instead of any other relevant time? Was this mockery?

“Sherlock?”

Warm, big hands rested on his shoulders, a grounding weight that took him out of his momentary shock. He blinked again, and time seemed to resume its regular, natural pace.

“You alright? Are you hurt?” John said, blue eyes scanning his face and his body. It was a medical, professional check, but John’s voice and eyes were warm. Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Are  _ you _ hurt? Is your shoulder aching?”

Sherlock heard John chuckle, a grin appearing on his lips. 

“Of course you noticed. Yeah, just a bit. That stunt with the bloody sword is going to give me a hell of a night, but kick me in the arse if it wasn’t worth it. The look on that Lord’s face”, John whistled, satisfied. He flashed a contented smile to Sherlock.

Sherlock did not smile back. 

“I know that face, love. What’s on your mind?”

The detective was still looking at John,  _ really _ looking, as deep as he could. Because he needed to know. And he needed to know now. 

_ What’s on my mind? Oh, my John. Many, many things _ .  _ Many thoughts and theories I wished I did not have, and many questions I asked myself long ago, and I hoped I would never ask myself again as long as we both lived. And so many new worries.  _

Sherlock said none of those things out loud. He just kept looking. For something. 

There was a spark, a flicker of something behind John’s eyes, a kind of ghostly glow on his skin, and then… he blinked and it was gone. 

Sherlock felt his husband’s hands holding his shoulders, firmly and carefully, shaking him softly. The sword John had been holding was now resting against the stairs, static and dull. Just another piece of pretentious furniture. Nothing worth a second glance. 

The Yarders were already taking Lord Mortimer into custody inside a patrol car, and Donovan was helping Lestrade gather all the evidence. None of the team noticed them or made any active attempt to initiate a conversation. Which was good, because Sherlock did not think he could handle small talk right now. 

“Hey. Earth to Holmes. I’m seriously alright”, John said softly, looking straight into Sherlock’s eyes. When he noticed Sherlock was actually looking at him, John got on the tip of his toes to give him a quick peck on the lips. Despite his own worries, Sherlock smiled softly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling peckish. Think Angelo will be open by the time we get there?”

“I’m sure he won’t mind saving us a table.”

Sherlock shook off his feelings of wrongness, and decided to ignore, even if just for an extra couple of hours, whatever was making him wary. The incoming days would have many minutes and hours to fill with his musings and deductions and worries. Right now, it was a moment for celebrating and resting. 

They just wrapped another successful case. They had an adrenaline rush and a couple of sleepless nights to compensate. His husband was hungry, and he himself could do with some carbohydrates. 

Sherlock Holmes was  _ decidedly _ not worried. Not at all. 

  
  
  
  
  


_ Call me if there’s beans in the morning. Something’s off. _

**_MH_ **


	2. In which beans happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that the John in this story is a bearded John. Keep that in mind as you go.
> 
> You may now proceed with your reading.

Sherlock woke up when John’s sandy hair tickled his nose. Cuddled as they were on the bed, with the chill of the autumn air cooling the windows, and early morning sunlight softly illuminating the bedroom, the detective decided a bit of laziness was in order. Comfortable in the security of his husband’s arms, he groaned, turned around so he was facing John’s chest, and lowered himself enough to hide his face from sunlight under John’s chin. As Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the pillow below him to find a better position, he proceeded to raise a leg under the bed clothes, and throw it over John’s upper legs. John twitched in his sleep and, still asleep, tightened his grip on Sherlock’s back, arm finding automatically a better position. 

Satisfied with his new arrangement, Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes and drifted back into a relaxed sleep.

They had beans for breakfast when they finally woke up. So Sherlock decided, watching as John hummed and swayed as he cooked the beans and made some toasts, to call Mycroft, in hopes that he had a new prophecy for him.

Mycroft was now the leading druid of all Great Britain covens, which was not an easy task. He had been raised inside the London coven, and his master, seeing how his mundane career was progressing, got him ready to get ahead of his fellow apprentices. Eventually, Mycroft’s magic was too good to ignore, and his position inside the British government was important enough to grant him the majority of the votes in the chief elections during the Samhain council. 

As a young apprentice, the older Holmes chose to specialise in prophecy and future vision magic. Sherlock enjoyed very much deciphering the twisted messages hidden between the lines his brother delivered. 

Sometimes they were good. Other times, Sherlock thought Mycroft was being bothersome, with deliberately ridiculous prophecies he couldn’t solve. 

They were lucky, nonetheless. Last prophet they had in the London coven got so out of control he was talking nothing but nonsense by the time his hair began to grey, and ended up being called Godfrey The Nutter. Mycroft had a better grip on his magic, even if he seemed to still be limited by the prophecies counter magic. Sherlock did not mind the riddles, as long as his older brother kept a comprehensive communication the rest of the time. 

“Aha!”

Smiling triumphantly, John offered Sherlock a freshly made dish of beans and toast, and then went to sit on his lap and kissed him, cooking spoon still in hand. 

It was a great idea John was only wearing a ridiculously colourful apron the yarders had given them as a present last christmas, Sherlock though. It was great because that had given him the precious chance of having a handful of Hotson’s arse that lovely morning. And that was always something worth celebrating.

If it also gave him the chance to have John riding him right there at the kitchen stool after things got heated, well. That was undoubtedly something to celebrate, too. Perhaps even worth the mess of a human sacrifice. 

Did sex count as human sacrifice? 

They were about to find out. 

* * *

“So. Told me to call you in case of beans happening. Beans happened. Where’s the fire?”

Sherlock was lying boneless on the sofa, absolutely spent and satiated after the kitchen sex and the (reheated) breakfast. Still enjoying the thrill of another case closed, and not yet ready to start looking for another one. John had left a couple of minutes ago to get some groceries, and so Sherlock decided it was a good moment to call Mycroft.

His amulet, laying over his chest, shone when Mycroft spoke.

“As you know, I’ve been checking John’s future for three years already, and until now everything seemed quite normal. All things considered. None of the triggers I left in place has been activated, except for one.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, stretching himself on the sofa as long as he was, curling his feet against the armrest. 

“Beans?”

Mycroft made an affirmative sound. His voice sounded distant, even across the always clear and nitid sound the amulet produced. Sherlock heard some papers being moved, and a keyboard being used. His brother was surely checking some kind of report on the matter.

“Not your usual breakfast, I take it?”

“No.”

“Thought so. Check for more unusual diets. Yesterday we felt a disturbance coming from the law lines. The guard is working on it, and I'm sending Anthea to keep an eye on our marked suspects.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue. A hand was softly caressing his belly, drawing circles around his navel, distracted.

“No prophecy, then?”

The silence was telling.

“There is a prophecy, isn't it? Let’s hear it.”

“It's too vague even for you. I’d like you to wait until it gets a bit more clear, but... The future is not unchanging, as you know. Keep an eye on the food, and I’ll call you back when I have something useful to share” Mycroft said, sounding bored already. There was a second of silence and then his voice was back, coming out of the amulet as something colder now. sounding the kind of impersonal tone that gives you goosebumps. “Water will break. A delivery will be taking place. Fulfilled promises and revelations. A test of endurance and new yet familiar faces.”

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes, committing those words to memory. He would study them during the morning. Maybe he’d have something relevant by night. 

“I profoundly despise that. I apologise for the uncalled mystery. Now I shall leave you. Foreign politics are tedious compared to future magic, but duty calls. Good luck with the new riddle, brother dear.”

And with that, the amulet over his chest went cold and lightless. Nothing more than a regular, old polished stone necklace. 

* * *

After getting home from the shops, John felt euphoric. It had been a lovely morning, the kitchen sex had been delightful, and Sherlock would be waiting for him, most likely at the sofa. The lazy git.

John was humming a happy tune when he reached the door of the flat at Baker Street. He frowned when, as he was reaching for the key, he saw water dripping from the steps, coming from the other side of the door. 

He hurried up, pushing the door open with his good shoulder, and holding the shopping bags a bit higher to avoid soaking them. 

The entrance was absolutely flooded. But he was surprised to see the water was not coming from department B as he was expecting, but from the ground floor. It all smelled strongly like a lake on a humid, rainy winter day. He could even smell algae. Was this because a street sewer had broken? They weren’t any close to any of the Thames’ sewers, or so he thought. Because that was the only explanation he could think of to justify that smell. But he might just be wrong about it. He’d have to ask Sherlock later. Surely the git would have a map detailing the sewer system somewhere in the flat. 

John dropped the bags at the dry stairs and hurried to Mrs. Hudson’s door, carefully calling her name and knocking on her door. He could hear the water rumour of a stream. Which was weird. Or worrisome. Because if some pipe inside Mrs. H had broken so bad it sounded like an actual stream, the situation was worse than he thought. 

“Mrs. Hudson, I'm coming in”, he said, raising his voice. He took a step back, his already waisted shoes completely covered by water. He got his good shoulder ready, and charged against the door. 

The wood trembled, but the door remained closed. John sniffed and flexed, hands clenching and unclenching before he settled again. He took one deep breath, and gave a hard kick onto the wood next to the door handle. 

The door to apartment A opened with a bang and a splash of water, but no sound came from within. The lake smell was even stronger now. John hurried inside as the water level rose, frantically looking for both the origin of the water and the old landlady. 

“Bloody hell. Where is all this water coming from?”

He checked all the rooms, but the landlady was nowhere to be seen. John thought, with a sense of calmness, that perhaps she was away doing shopping, so the only issue there was the flooding. 

Or so he hoped.

He got to the last door, which he presumed, led to the bathroom. The kitchen sink water taps had been closed, so the only place he imagined the water could be coming from, was the closed bathroom.

John froze for a second. What if Mrs. Hudson had been taking a bath, slipped and fell? What if she was unconscious with the bathtub taps open, and she was drowning? 

“Goddammit.” 

His soldier mode kicked in, and he hurried to get to the door, and break into the bathroom. Already thinking what to do with whatever wounds or situations he found when he got in. He was ready to grab his mobile phone to dial an ambulance when the wooden door finally gave way and a wave of frozen water hit him right in the face, pushing him down to the floor.

Coughing and with his heart racing, John got up from the ground where he had fallen, and hurried again to the bathroom, to find the room filled with water, barely the frame of the bathtub surfacing. Light was turned off, and John was confident turning it on may be unadvisable, given that he was covered in water to the waist already. He hurried to close the open taps, and heard the blessed sound of silence. No more water rumble. Just his own hurried breathing. 

With only a dim light coming from the door behind him, he blinked and tried to find a passed out landlady, but he was unable to see much. 

He moved closer, trying to get his arms into the bathtub, to try and find her, or to find the plug and pull it off so at least some of the water got drained. 

The smell of wet ground and algae had gotten so intense, he couldn’t help wrinkling his nose. Were this the herbal soothers Mrs. Hudson was always talking about? He had always suspected it had been an euphemism for good old weed…

Something viscous touched John’s fingertips, and he flinched. It almost felt like…

As John moved away, his feet slipped and he fell face first into the bathtub. He barely had time to gasp and get some air before he was… falling inside the seemingly bottomless bathtub.

The water was as pitch black as it was cold. Cold as only river water can be, even in the middle of a summer day. With his eyes open, John was unable to see any light surface and, weren’t for the air bubbles coming out of his mouth, he would have trouble discerning if he was either up or down. 

Trying his best not to panic, and failing miserably, John fighted to swim upwards. It was hard to move, and he had the feeling he wasn’t moving at all. All his body was going numb.

_“I will die here. Fuck, Sherlock. I don’t even know what’s going on but I'm so going to drown.”_

Even thinking he was inevitably going to die, he refused to do so without a fight. Always so stubborn. Feeling his chest tight, he swam faster, seeing a blurry point of light over him. Whatever it was, it was surely the surface. If he managed to reach something and pull himself up…

A hand slid onto his, soft and surprisingly cold.

 _“Up, John Watson”_ , a voice said. The voice was as soft as the hand, vaguely familiar. _“Up you go.”_

Long fingers curled onto his wrist, and suddenly he was propelled upwards, towards the light.

John gasped. 

* * *

Sherlock crossed the portal back to their shared bedroom, knowing nobody would be there to see it. The fireplace was still lit, we could hear the logs crackling, and the faint smell of humid wood, fire and smoke. 

He took off his coat and scarf and as he hanged them behind the door, he took off his shoes. Then, he also took his socks off and threw them at the laundry basket, and walked to the living room in his shirt and trousers, naked feet finding the heat of both the parket and the living room's old persian carpet. 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock smiled.

“Hello, John. Back so soon?”

“Mrs. Hudson’s flat is flooded.”

Sherlock held a chuckle.

“Oh?”

As he poked the logs, he waited for a reply, but the only thing he heard was John’s breathing. It sounded hard, fast and short. His husband was unsettled, and doing his best to keep his breathing in control without suffocating. Had he been running? 

Sherlock turned after hanging the fire poker back at its hang, and he froze when he saw John, looking at him from underneath the door’s lintel, like a wet dog. He suddenly became aware of the smell of water, humid ground and algae that had been masked by the fireplace. He also saw the shinny, argentine silhouette of a large, elegant object he would be able to recognise anywhere. 

“Please. Explain to me why I pulled out a sword from Mrs. Hudson’s flooded bathtub?”

  
  



	3. In which they have a bit of self care time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its a short chapter, but I’ll be working on something special for Halloween, and I wanted to post an update for this before going full time to the other fic!

“The once and future king.”

Sherlock was stunned. Having too many thoughts at the same time to process just one. It was not easy to see your husband, your Afghanistan veteran husband, shocked. And much less holding a sword. And not  _ any _ sword.  _ The _ Sword. The fucking Sword on the fucking Stone. With the exception that this one was not currently in any stone, or had been pulled out of one, either.

The only words he managed to mumble were those. He was blocked. He had heard Mycroft’s prophecy just that morning. Surely this had to be a mistake of some sort. Prophecies weren’t usually this fast. 

“Are  _ you _ quoting a children’s book to  _ me _ ?” John asked, making that adorable pout of indignation Sherlock loved. It should be illegal to look so cute and menacing at the same time. “This is serious, Sherlock.”

“And I’m dead serious, I assure you. But that’s the answer. The reason you pulled out a sword from our landlady’s bathtub is that. The Once and Future King.”

John fumed, the hand holding the sword was firmly closed, and the knuckles had turned white. The parquet floor underneath the doctor was growing a puddle, water dripping from the clothes and John’s drenched hair. 

Sherlock moved to the fireplace and grabbed some wood. Lit a fire. Get John warm. Take off the wet clothes and put them on the bathtub to dry. Put the sword away. Explanations later. 

Using old papers, Sherlock whispered and, out of John’s sight, a spark came out of his fingers and a small flame began to consume his old experiment drafts. It was the first time he had dared to use magic that could be easily detected with John around. He did not care much anymore. 

“What are you doing?” John finally said from behind him, still waiting at the apartment door. 

Sherlock looked at him. 

“Get out of those”, he said, walking to the bathroom. He took the big, fluffy towel he knew John loved, and took a smaller one to lay it on the floor in front of the fireplace.

When he got back to the living room, John was pulling his underwear off, and the sword was resting over Sherlock’s chair, as if exposed.

From his side, he could see the familiar colour of the soft, dark red leather around the large hilt, and the silver, curved shapes of the celtic knots decorating both the guard and the inside of the medieval dragon-shaped quillons. Those curved gently downwards, to the hilt instead of the blade, offering a moderate protection for the hands. The red stone at the pommel was way more polished than he remembered it. Inside the fuller, he could see more celtic knot designs, so he knew the inscription would be on the other side. What he could not see, was the scabbard. He frowned. 

Sherlock closed the door of 221B with a turn of the key, and walked over John. Sherlock saw the gleam of the wedding ring at his husband's finger as the flames finally took hold on the wood, and got bigger. 

The detective covered John with the fluffy towel, and extended the other one on the floor, over a cushion, so he could sit there. Then he proceeded to sit behind him over his legs, and slowly began to dry him. Then, pushed the towel upwards to cover his head and dry the hair enough that it stopped dripping. 

Under his hands, John was cold and shivering, and Sherlock was careful to get him warm with his own body heat as well as with the towel friction. He smelled like algae and mud, a kind of smell Sherlock was familiar and comfortable with. But he could tell John was not very appreciative of it. 

“Would you like me to get a bath ready? No offense, but you could use some soap right now.”

John, looking at the flames as if hypnotized, chuckled and agreed, silent. Sherlock got up behind him, kissing his temple to avoid the scratch of the beard. It was a soft place to kiss John, at which he could feel his pulse against his lips. His second favourite spot, right after the lips, obviously. 

Sherlock filled the tube, taking the soaked clothing to the bedroom and drying it with magic. John wouldn’t notice the difference and, soon enough, it wouldn’t matter if he did. He folded the clothes and left them on top of the drawer, before heating the bath water with a quick spell. 

The detective brushed his fingers against the ceramic, and activated a rune he had craved long ago at the bottom. It was a very simple, quite basic example of elemental magic. It simply would keep the water the right temperature until it was deactivated again. Simple, Sherlock thought, is seldom an equivalent for useless.

Going back to the living room, he managed to convince John to get into the bathtub, leaving the fireplace lit so the flat could get warmer. They agreed to have the bathroom door open to check the fire. “Just in case”, John said, and Sherlock acquiesced. 

As John got into the water, Sherlock shedded his clothes and folded them over the closed toilet before joining him. They sat inside the bathtub for a while, cuddled together in silence. John resting inside the circle of Sherlock’s arms, against his chest, just relaxing, hearing each other’s breath. 

Slowly, and after the tension left John’s muscles, Sherlock washed his husband’s hair with his own shampoo. John did not complain about it, presumably for lack of energy to start a long conversation about the benefits of using a decent hair product. The detective took great care in massaging the scalp as he washed, and when he finished, he moved his hands gently under John’s chin, to wash the beard too. John groaned and relaxed as Sherlock caressed his beard and neck with his long fingers. And just before John was beginning to fall asleep, lulled by comfort and the rhythmic washing, Sherlock decided it was time to rinse the soap away. 

It was gentle too, being careful not to let it get to his eyes or mouth, but it was enough to shake him out of his slumber.

“I feel like a baby”, John muttered, his words slurred. 

“You’re too big to be a baby, John”, Sherlock pressed a kiss under John’s earlobe, and took a deep breath, smelling the wooden fragrance left by his shampoo on John’s hair.

They stood inside the warm water a bit longer, cuddled and relaxed, after the washing was over. Sherlock could feel as John’s breath was slower than before. His hands, resting on top of his belly, felt the steady beating of his heart. Was he falling asleep? After such an experience, perhaps a good nap was in order. 

“Sherlock.”

“Mmm?”

“I don't want you to think I’m going nuts.”

Sherlock frowned and looked at him.

“Why would I ever think that about you?”

“If someone came back home soaking wet, with a sword, and said to me they pulled it out of a flooded tub after almost drowning, I would probably think they’re in need of some serious prescriptions.”

Sherlock felt how John’s hands covered his own over his stomach, and Sherlock held them and gave them a squeeze. 

“I’m afraid the time has come for us to have a very long conversation. I just pray that I do not lose you to it.”

John turned to look at him, breaking free from the circle of Sherlock’s arms. The bathtub water moved with him, some of it spilled onto the floor. He did not care. John was watching him with as much concern as his tired face was capable of expressing. 

“You won’t. Of course you won’t lose me. It’s a bit late for that. We have this” he said, raising his left hand to show him his wedding band. “And also the papers we signed. We are as bonded as we could possibly be. I also doubt Mycroft would help me get a divorce, even if you asked him.”

Sherlock looked into John’s deep, blue eyes, swallowing the knot that appeared inside his throat.

“If I wasn’t what you think I am… everything you think I am… Would you still love me?”

John arched an eyebrow.

“Which part of ‘we-are-so-married’ is the one you failed to understand just now? You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Sherlock Holmes. Not since you put this ring on my finger, anyway.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but took John’s hand and kissed his knuckles and the wedding band. And, despite himself, he smiled.

“Of course. How come I forgot the inescapable, unyielding power of paperwork and jewellery. How preposterous of me.”

John smiled and bent forward to press a kiss to his lips. There was nothing of the passion and need that had been there that morning. It was just a gentle press of lips. This was intimate and tender. I’m here. I love you. It’s ok.

John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s, rubbing the tip of their noses together, breathing the same air.

“For better or worse”, the doctor murmured. 

“You old sap”, Sherlock replied, rubbing their noses again before kissing him softly back.


	4. In which they finally talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to [Eragon19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19) for being my partner in crime and Beta for this story!

Later, with both of them warm, smelling of shampoo and soap, they laid in front of the fireplace, comfortably draped around each other. 

They had moved the sofa cushions to the floor and pushed John’s chair so its owner could use it as a backrest. Sherlock was on his side, head resting on John’s chest, one leg thrown over his hips. They had a big, fluffy towel on top of them, providing more modesty than warmth. Their location was warm enough to avoid clothing, they decided. It was quite right. The fireplace did provide enough heat to dry them completely. John’s hair was no longer dripping. 

The sky over London had turned dark grey, and the deep sound of thunder could be heard resonating like growls of a gigantic beast. Not too long after they settled, soft rain began, droplets of water coating the windows. It was a quiet moment. A very domestic scene. John almost felt like the events of the precious hours had only been a bad dream. He felt kind of lightheaded. Almost as if his mind, unable to comprehend any of it, was offering a truce based in sweet oblivion. It was probably part of the shock. And it wasn’t like there was not a reminder of it being quite real, anyway.

The sword was still sitting on Sherlock’s chair, it’s argent shine turned reddish by the flames. It was kind of unsettling to look at the polished, shining steel. If the sword suddenly decided to attack him on its own and start talking, he wouldn’t be very surprised.

John, a hand playing with Sherlock’s fingers over his stomach, and the other caressing his curls, looked down to try and find his husband’s face instead. Way more comfortable than fixating on something he could not understand.

“I can hear you thinking, John”, Sherlock said, his cheek still pressed against his chest. He felt the detective sigh and move slightly to press a tender kiss to the center of his shoulder scar. “Where do you want me to start?”

Sherlock was making it sound so simple. Just as if he was about to explain a recent experiment. He wasn’t sure if that was comforting or worrying. If Sherlock felt the need to keep him calm, then things might not be as simple or friendly as he could make them sound.

He frowned, considering. He gave a soft squeeze to Sherlock’s fingers.

“The sword?”

Sherlock spoke against his flesh.

“That’s  _ Excalibur _ . Obviously.”

There was a moment of silence, in which Sherlock listened to the steady beats of John’s heart deep inside his chest, a rhythmic pounding that helped to keep him calm. 

“Obviously”, John repeated, as if trying to grasp what it entailed. “And what happened at Mrs Hudson’s…?”

“Fixed the moment you took the sword, I presume. The magic of  _ Excalibur _ has been dormant for too long. I’m unsure what triggered it this time, but now it belongs to you.”

“To me? What am I now, the bloody king of England?” Sherlock made a face, as if trying to agree, but then decided against it and just shrugged instead. John took a deep breath. “Love, I’m trying to be open minded about all of this, but… Magic? Do you realise how nerve wracking it is to hear the most sceptical, intelligent man I know, talk so casually about… magic?”

John eyed the sword again and as soon as he saw the glimmer, darted his eyes away, looking at the fireplace instead. He pressed Sherlock closer against himself.

“I can only imagine. And I apologise. Know that I did not lie to you. Ever. Not about this. If I had known for sure you were the one we were expecting, I’d have explained everything sooner.”

“‘We’?”

Sherlock took a deep breath.

“I think I might have to explain a bit about myself if you are to understand any of this”, the detective said, turning himself in John’s arms so he was laying on his back, looking at the ceiling. “I’ve had many names, before I was Sherlock. And I’ve also been different than I am now. I like who I’ve become, I like the person I am when I’m with you. You already know about my past with drug addiction, my struggles with it. That’s my darkest point, so I think in that regard, what’s to come will be unsettling but not off putting.”

“You are scaring me. Are you sick? In danger?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I’m quite alright, my dear John. What I'm trying to say is that, long before I was known as Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, I was someone else. I’m a sceptical man, John. That’s who I am. But sceptical means weary of making rushed conclusions on things yet to prove as true. Not blind to the evidence that shakes my view of the world as I believe it to be. And magic is no foreign to me, and has not been so for a very long time. At least not a big part of it, anyway.”

There was absolute silence. Sherlock could almost feel how John was really struggling to stay open minded about this and comprehend what Sherlock was saying. People with no contact with magic had a hard time accepting the fact that it did exist. Unlike kids, adults were the most difficult ones to convince. A kid’s mind is flexible, absorbing and open. An adult’s mind is cluttered with experience, objections and worries, and a surprising ability to negate the obvious if so they chose.

“A demonstration might be in order. Please try and stay calm.”

Sherlock concentrated, closing his eyes. He felt the storm, outside. The static energy increased as electricity took shape high inside the storm clouds. He had not done this for years, but it was a quite simple trick. Quite simple too. Only a matter of reshaping energy already generated. 

He took a glass from the table, reaching for it, and there was a sudden buzz. The static made their heads hurt for a moment before a trail of light came zigzagging out of the fireplace and went directly into the glass, filling it like water.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock. What the flying fuck.”

Sherlock was now casually holding a regular glass of water, filled with a shining ball of white light that sparked and buzzed. Sherlock looked at it, moving the glass as if trying to check its contents from different angles.

Sherlock could feel John’s unease under the concealed look he had. This was something unknown, potentially dangerous and, he was sure, his husband was also dealing with his trust on Sherlock right now. Because, after all this time, he had hidden this from him. Never mentioned, never said a thing. And this was not like having a secret tattoo. This was something John was scared of. Something he had trouble in believing, but had nonetheless happened before his eyes.  _ Perhaps an explanation about it. As if it was an experiment. Or a case. Perhaps that would ease his mind.  _

“Magic is just a name for a kind of science. It requires study, practice and dedication. And it also has its limitations. But a simple matter of energy manipulation isn’t the finest trick I know. I could turn this lightning into anything, as long as the energy it has can endure the process. Or as long as I'm willing to offer more energy to change it. For now, let’s just use it to keep the fire lit.”

That being said, Sherlock moved his right hand, making a gesture like holding a doorknob and opening a door. To John’s amusement, as the detective’s eyes sparkled, the burning logs on the fireplace… changed. The scorched wood was changing its colour, as if… healing itself from the fire that consumed it. John saw the flames go weak for a moment before steadying again, as the logs stopped changing. John saw the bright white glow of the lightning trapped inside the glass go weaker the healthier the logs became, until it sparkled one last time before disappearing. 

“ _ Sherlock.  _ Did you just…?” John opened and closed his mouth like a fish, trying to put in words the confusion inside his head. “That was magic _. Actual  _ magic _.  _ Oh, my god. Sherlock, you are a mage!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Mage is such a stupid word. We are not  _ mages _ . We are  _ druids. _ ”

The detective moved until he was half sitting, helping himself up with an arm. He looked at John, and took his hand with the other. Then squeezed.

“You’re afraid.”

John huffed.

“I'm not  _ afraid.  _ For God’s sake, Sherlock. Since when?”

It was Sherlock’s time to frown.

“Since when, what?”

“Since when are you… this! A druid or whatever, Jesus.”

“Since I was a child.”

“A child! And you never thought… I dunno, maybe it was a thing to approach me and say: ‘oh, hello, John, sunshine of my life, my soon-to-be-husband. My best friend. There’s a little something you need to know. I am actually a supernatural creature, like the ones in the films, and can do magic. Oh, by the way, we’ve got a case.’”

Sherlock was sure John probably hadn’t noticed, but his voice had grown increasingly loud the more he advanced in his speech. He tried very hard not to flinch away from him. 

“Did you drug me?” John asked suddenly, moving forward and sitting down properly, looking hard into Sherlock’s eyes. “You put something on my breakfast this morning while I wasn’t looking? Is this for a case? Because I swear to God, Sherlock…”

“What? No! John, you’re not drugged!” Sherlock felt insulted. He had promised.  _ Promised  _ to John what happened at Baskerville, so long ago, would not happen again. John had been adamant on that point. If you do this again, I’m gone. And Sherlock swore to never repeat it. The idea that Sherlock would go that far again, without John’s consent, was insulting and hurtful.

John held his hand hard, until his fingers hurt a little. There was hurt in his eyes, too. Betrayal. 

“Sherlock…”

“John, I  _ promise _ ”, Sherlock hissed. He knew. He knew this was going to end poorly. Now John was going to leave him. He’d leave for good and all because Sherlock should have said something sooner. Should have trusted John enough to tell him. But if he was going to leave, it should be knowing why. “I swear it. I swear it on you. This is real.”

Silence. Terrible, dreadful silence. Sherlock’s mind was spinning.  _ Please, don’t leave. Please, don’t.  _ He was too scared to look away, too scared to breathe. John was deliberating. If he trusted Sherlock enough to believe, or this was the last straw. And oh, how Sherlock wanted that his John would give him a chance, even if he didn’t deserve it. 

“Before”, John said, breaking the silence. He sounded careful, as if he was trying to clear a point to make the final decision. “You said ‘we’.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s answer came out breathless. “Mycroft and I. We were waiting. Trying to find the one. Arthur’s heir. At first, when I first saw you… thought it might have been you. But we waited, nothing happened, no prophecies came out around you… I swear I did not know. We did not know. I would have told you sooner.”

Sherlock felt the air was leaving him. Just like John. He could hear a quite terrible sound, like a scratch. He ended up lightheaded. But it did not matter, because John was going to leave him. And never come back. Because Sherlock should have trusted him. Sooner. He should have told him. Oh god. It was suffocating to think how lonely he’d be, how much he’d miss him. And all because he was stupid enough not to trust his fucking husband.

“Sherlock! Hey, Sherlock, c’mon.”

Oh he was going to die. He wasn’t breathing. Why wasn’t he breathing? Was that the reason that he was feeling lightheaded? Oh. Oh, his heart was failing. He looked into John's eyes, worried and gaped. He would die here. John would be alone. Alone to face the future ahead. Sherlock couldn't do that to him. But how to survive this? He could not breathe, his heart was failing him. He was trapped inside his skin. He wanted to rip it out, so he could breathe. 

"Sherlock, love, you're having a panic attack", John said, and moved to sit in front of him, going from angry husband to healthcare professional in the blink of an eye.  _ Yes,  _ Sherlock thought, with some surprise.  _ I am.  _ He held his hands firmly to avoid his scratching on his chest, and Sherlock grabbed them until his knuckles went white. "Can you follow me? Here, take some air... and out. And again."

"John", Sherlock weezed. He sounded like a goose. "I'm...so...sorry..."

“It’s ok. I’m here. Follow my breathing, Sherlock. You need to breathe or you’ll pass out.”

He felt the warmth of John’s fingers touching the skin of his wrist. Checking his pulse. Sherlock, meanwhile, was trying very hard to follow his lead and remember how to make his lungs work correctly. There was moist in his eyes, he could feel them itching. What a mess.

“That’s it. Very good, love. Keep it on. It’s ok. You’re safe here. I’m here.”

_ For how long _ , Sherlock thought, clinging harder to John’s hands. It had been a long time since the last panic attack Sherlock had gone through. He had suffered a couple after his two years away, triggered by a smell or a particularly hard noise when he was off guard. He had navigated those by himself fairly well with the techniques Ella had provided. He wasn’t blind enough to avoid recognising he did have a problem. 

He normally felt short of breath. Feeling like he should run, sweating. When there was nothing to run away from. But this was different. Perhaps that’s why he failed to identify it as such. He never usually felt like he was… dying.

Eventually, the panic attack subsided, and he felt drained. His head was hurting, and his body felt tense aching. But he could already breathe, and his heart had recovered its usual rate. 

He snuggled into John’s chest, breathing him in, holding him tight. Tears were finally being spilled, even though he had no energy to cry and no sobs when coming out. It was just… pure exhaustion.

John rocked him, still gently monitoring his heartbeat. Then he dropped a soft kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head, pressing his cheek there to rest his head too.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock had not enough energy left in him to frown. Why was John apologising? Maybe he was finally leaving. That was why he was saying he was sorry. Sorry, Sherlock, but this is too much. And then he’ll be alone. 

His heart made something painful. The only thing the detective managed to answer was a questioning noise.

“I’m sorry I got so angry with you. I think this was a tense day for everyone. In its own way”, he completed, and his voice was softer than before. Tender. Sherlock dared not to open his eyes and look up. John’s thumb caressed the platinum wedding band on Sherlock’s finger. “Was this your first panic attack?”

Sherlock sighed and, surrendering to honestly, he shook his head against John’s chest. 

“This was the first bad one”, he admitted. His voice was low. “I’ve been seeing Ella, to control them. It helps.”

“Ok.” John pressed another kiss to his head, and Sherlock could almost see his concentrated face, eyes to the front but not really seeing anything. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I’m not going to leave.”

Silence.

And more silence. Just the flames in the fireplace still licking and consuming the wood. And the occasional car horn from angry drivers outside, accompanied by the rain and distant thunder.

“I’ll need some time to assume this. To adjust to it. But you swore this was true, and I believe you.”

John heard Sherlock sniff and frowned in worry.

“Thank you.”

His voice was hoarse, stronger than before but still strained. 

“Love, you’re not thanking me for staying, aren’t you?”

And silence again. Curious that the detective’s absence of words were even more telling than his words.

“Sherlock. I’d trust you with my life. I’m not leaving or divorcing you. I was furious because I thought you lied to me. That you used me.”

Sherlock finally decided to stop hiding and, with tired eyes, turned into John’s arms to look at him. His eyes were red from the tears and half open, still moist.

“I’m sorry I did not tell you. Before. I should have.”

John smiled tenderly, his anger slowly draining. When he recognised Sherlock was having an attack, worry quickly replaced his fury, and now he was too relieved that it was over to still be mad about it. It was just easier to let it go. Just water under the bridge. 

“You should have. But you did now”, he said, squeezing him softly against his chest. “But no more secrets. If there’s anything else I should know, like Mrs. Hudson being Xena, I need to know.”

He was joking, of course. But Sherlock’s expression was kind of weird. Oh God.

“Sherlock, is our landlady Xena?”

Sherlock frowned.

“I have no idea who Xena is. But you finding  _ Excalibur _ at her flat was not actually a coincidence. Mrs. Hudson is a very powerful creature. You might recognise her as the Lady of the Lake. Her bathtub is linked to her original lake, that’s why you fell into it and why the water was endlessly coming out of it. I suspect she was the one that dragged you to the surface.”

_ Up, John Watson. Up you go. _

Bugger. That’s why the voice sounded so familiar. 

“You, John”, continued Sherlock, with a defeated sigh “are the reincarnation of Arthur Pendragon. Awaking the sword, you have set in motion an old, powerful magic. Your connection to your predecessor will strengthen with time, and you might experience memories from him coming to you. We are unsure how this will proceed, but we’ll be by your side, fear not.”

John found it hard to believe, and it was still quite difficult to assume everything he was hearing was true. But Sherlock hardly had any patience for things he considered to be ridiculous. And if he was taking so much effort and personal energy in telling this to him, then…  _ Once you’ve eliminated the impossible… _

It was impossible Sherlock was lying to him. 

So what remained was, Sherlock telling the truth. 

No matter how improbable that could be. 

“Mycroft and you? And who are you two in this fantasy equation?”

“Mycroft is a druid, a respected member of the England coven. And also a prophet. I, myself, am also a druid from the same coven. But I’m much more than my brother is. I already told you I had many names, before I was Sherlock. And now I have to say I’m kind of glad it was you, because there’s no one else I’d rather be tied too.”

Sherlock took a deep breath.

“I slept for many centuries, in a stasis created by the same magic that brought the sword to you. The same magic the sword is made of. There are others that will come, eventually, now the sword has found you. Your knights. But also your enemies. And I’ll be by your side just as I was for Arthur.”

John frowned and the mention of enemies, and felt incredibly childish thinking about knights.  _ His _ knights. Jesus. 

“Before I was Sherlock, my name was Emrys. And then I became who would be later known by people outside the coven as Merlin.”

  
  



End file.
